


when the west wind blows (upon the fields of barley)

by artanogon



Category: Ranger's Apprentice - John Flanagan
Genre: ITS THEIR FIRST MEETING BOIS, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Tending to injuries, and neither can flanny, he’s also a stubborn bastard, lewis kang is Gilan’s Medic Bf and i love him, set during gilan’s..... second year of apprenticeship? i can’t fucking timeline, so fuck that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:55:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24432442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artanogon/pseuds/artanogon
Summary: When Gilan gets injuried in a battle with the Temujai in the war-torn Middle Kingdoms, a medic refugee helps him tend to his wound, and changes the course of Gilan’s life forever.
Relationships: Gilan (Ranger's Apprentice)/Original Character, Gilan Davidson/Lewis Kang
Comments: 15
Kudos: 27





	when the west wind blows (upon the fields of barley)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aleanmeanaquamarine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aleanmeanaquamarine/gifts).



> ITS GILEWIS BABES
> 
> FOR ELIZA BC I LOVE HER
> 
> many thanks to theravenlyn for beta-ing!
> 
> (title taken from Fields of Gold by Sting, which is a MAJOR gilewis song)

When Gilan and Lewis first meet, Gilan’s just been stabbed in the leg. He’s run from the raging cavalry battle (slaughter, really, this village is defenceless and the Temujai well know it) into a ruined house, more than a little terrified, and he’s only seventeen. He’s been through worse, he’d fought at Hackham Heath, but he’s already so tired of war and fighting. He came to the Middle Kingdoms knowing chaos would await him, but he didn’t realise it would be this bad in so many places. No wonder there are so many refugees everywhere Gilan travels— if the Temujai weren’t enough, now there’s internal conflict too. 

He half-collapses onto the cold, dusty floor, gritting his teeth at the throbbing agony in his calf. He can’t see the wound well, but the fabric of his trousers is stained with blood and more is pooling on the floor. The injury must be either long or deep, and no matter which one, it’s going to need stitches. Grimacing, Gilan pulls out his medical kit and curses his rather childish rebellion against learning how to stitch up wounds from Halt. In hindsight, that knowledge would have been a lot more useful if he’d bothered to care about it. He’s just about to cut back the fabric from his wound when he’s startled by the clatter of a stone on the floor behind him. 

Gilan springs to his feet (an action that he instantly regrets) and brings his sword up. He stifles a groan as his leg flares again. He’s expecting another Temu’j who’s tracked him down, maybe the partner of the sneaking bastard who stabbed him, but the person standing behind him _definitely_ isn’t a Temujai warrior. 

Instead, it’s a boy around his age standing with his arms crossed. He has dark skin with patches of white around his mouth, long unkempt hair, and he’s dressed in Middle Kingdom commoner’s clothing. The clothes are dirty and stained with dried blood, but the boy himself doesn’t look hurt— either he’s been out there fighting or has found company among the injured and corpses. With the bloodbaths at previous villages and the boy’s rather weak appearance, it's most likely the latter.

Whoever he is, he’s small and thin, unsteady on his feet like he’s weak from hunger. His face is pale and wan as well, but his dark eyes are steely. He looks ready for a fight. He doesn’t look like much of a threat, but Rangers tend to look small and underwhelming too (although Gilan likes to think he’s the exception, tall and handsome as he is), so he’s keeping up his guard. The boy steps a bit closer and Gilan straightens hastily, his leg screaming at him. He nearly buckles over again onto the debris-strewn floor.

“What are you doing, you moron?” The boy asks in accented Common, his voice almost… reprimanding? “I don’t think those stunts are going to help with whatever you’ve managed to do to your leg.”

Gilan stops in his tracks, more than a little dumbfounded. “You speak Common?”

The stranger gives him a deadpan look that would make Halt proud. “Any other dumb questions, asshole?”

Vaguely, Gilan realises his mouth is hanging open and hastily closes it with a slight _clop_. _Hell_ , his leg hurts. The boy across from him looks a bit torn about whether he wants to storm off and leave Gilan to suffer or do something to help. Gilan should… probably say something. Anything. “Are you a refugee?”

“ _No_ ,” the boy says with another sarcastic eye roll, moving closer but still hesitant. After all, Gilan is still holding a very sharp sword and has his longbow on him to boot. “This is my house, and I was going to stay in it after it got knocked to rubble and the whole town was overrun by—” He finishes the sentence with a word Gilan doesn’t recognise, but he can guess from the tone is probably an insult.

It’s only now that the boy is within a few feet of him that Gilan makes out the scalpel expertly held in his fist. He moves on the defensive instinctively, and his wounded leg finally gives out on him. He collapses and the boy darts forward, the scalpel clattering on the ground as he catches Gilan before he can hit the floor. (He’s even shorter than he first looked, only up to Gilan’s shoulder.) 

“Sit down. You’re losing too much blood.”

“But—”

“Shut up, sit down, and let me help, dumbass,” his newfound companion snaps, gently shoving Gilan to the floor and then kneeling by his side. He’s rather pretty up close, with freckles and long eyelashes, dust and shadows smeared under his tired eyes. “Have you ever heard a piece of medical advice in your life? You’re not supposed to put weight on your leg. Let alone trying to swing at people with a big heavy sword.”

“It’s not—” Gilan starts, and then gives up. “Pardon me for being a bit worried you were carrying a weapon.”

“Ah yes, the dreaded and terrifying scalpel. Surely your assortment of knives, arrows and gods know what else would be no match for it.” Whoever this boy is, Halt would like him a lot. They seem to be cut from the exact same mould. “What were you doing in a desolate town like this anyways?”

Gilan considers the boy across from him for a minute, then decides it’s worth giving some sort of explanation. He doesn’t have to tell specific details. Just give him a vague idea. “I’m Gilan. A King’s Ranger.” Technically an apprentice Ranger, but that sdoesn’t matter too much. It’s probably better to look confident and mature, he’s embarrassed himself enough already. “I was passing through on an assignment.”

“What’s a Ranger?” the dark-haired boy asks, carefully pulling away the cloth from Gilan’s wound, then probing the skin around the actual injury itself. It’s a deep cut, but not a large one. 

“I’m… from Araluen. We’re kind of…” He doesn’t really have an idea for how to explain it. “We’re sort of law enforcement, a strike force in a way? We carry out missions in the interest of Araluen’s welfare.”

“Hmm. Interesting,” his companion says, obviously not interested. “Anyways, your wound is deep, but it doesn’t look like it’s damaged veins or tendons, just cut into the muscle. You won’t want to be putting weight on that for a while. The most important thing is to stop this bleeding. Do you have a medical kit?”

Gilan motions with his head to where it lies on the ground, abandoned after his hasty confrontation. The boy picks it up, then considers the contents for a minute before setting to work on cleaning Gilan’s leg with practised and easy movements. He’s obviously no stranger to medical work, and it would explain the scalpel. Whoever this refugee is, he seems to have a story to tell. 

“Who are you?” Gilan asks after a few minutes of silence. 

“I’m Lewis. A… former medic-in-training. And evidently someone with a bit more of a head on my shoulders.”

At this point, Gilan’s a little tired of his companion’s condescension. He’s not _that_ much of an idiot, he just got overwhelmed by enemies and one of them happened to get past his guard. And he went on the defensive because he thought one of them was trying to attack him again, so really, who can blame him? 

He tells Lewis as much, but Lewis just shakes his head. His fingers scrape the sensitive gash in Gilan’s leg as he’s applying the salve and Gilan stifles a yelp. “It was a lucky hit. And besides, I got out of there and I was _going_ to fix it up.”

Lewis seems like he wants to argue, but then concedes to the point. “That’s fair. But still, you’re going to need stitches. Do you have anything to numb the pain?”

“The tin of salve. It’s warmweed, a disinfectant and painkiller.”

“Got it.”

As everything narrows down to the distant clashing outside the ruined house, to the careful methodic stitches Lewis sews, to the warmweed slowly numbing the pain in his leg, Gilan slowly lets some of his tension relax and watches Lewis again. He’s biting his bottom lip absentmindedly as he stitches the wound with a careful touch, muttering to himself in some dialect of Zhong, his hair limp and greasy and falling into his face. He’s a healer, then. Suddenly the bloodstains along the sleeves of his tunic make a lot more sense. Gilan wonders how long he’s been on the run, where he came from, where he’s been. What he’s seen. 

Eventually, as Lewis is wrapping the wound in bandages, Gilan speaks again. 

“Thank you. But why’d you help me?”

Lewis doesn’t respond for a while, just focuses on finishing the wrappings, then shrugs and sits back on the floor. He doesn’t move far back, staying by Gilan’s side who tentatively shifts into a more comfortable position. His almost eerily intense dark eyes flick to Gilan’s face again and linger there. “You were hurt. And you got hurt fighting the bastards who destroyed my home. I figured you were worth helping.”

The air between them is thick with an odd tension.

“How do I pay you back?” Gilan asks. 

Hard resolve is set into Lewis’ face. He is thin and scrappy, obviously on his own, but there’s a fire of some sort simmering under his weary appearance. There’s something about him, the way he unflinchingly stormed into Gilan’s life and ordered him to sit down and shut up, something… interesting. Something that sends chills down Gilan’s spine. “You want to repay me? Get me out of this damn country.”

Rarely do people catch Gilan’s attention. Lewis is one of the few who has. It’s not technically _legal_ to smuggle him out of the country, but Gilan doesn’t want to have to deal with a bunch of fees and sticky red tape, but he can’t leave a debt to go unpaid either. His mentor Halt has a firm belief in crime for the greater good, and in this situation he’d doubtlessly find that philosophy appropriate. (Or he might not. Either way, it’d probably be a good thing for Gilan to keep this a secret.) It’s not going to be easy, but Gilan’s a Ranger, and he can pull it off. His instincts tell him not to give Lewis up, that this boy in front of him is going to do something great someday. Gilan shifts to where he’s fully facing Lewis, and a mischievous smile touches the edge of his mouth. 

Throughout history, such instincts have proved themselves to be important.

“I think I have the perfect idea about how to do that.”

**Author's Note:**

> and thus the wonder duo begins


End file.
